I hate Pancake Day. It’s the one day of the year, you spend
thinking you’re the absolute boss of culinary perfection, then 15 seconds
later, you realise you’re even more of an idiot than you were last year.
Most years, it’s the flip that catches me out; too much
wrist, not enough flip, not enough wrist, too much flip, etc. This year
however, I experienced a different sort of desert-based disappointment...
As the pancake descended, I saw, mid-flip, that the top of
the pancake was moving slightly, with the creeping jiggle of under-cooked
pancake. I began to cry out in desperation, when it made friends with the pan
once again, and it’s par-backed innards hurtled out like the organs of
exploding cattle, hitting the kitchen cabinets, the ceiling, and inevitably, my
face.
Pancakes 17 : 0 Me
